


The Internal Temperature of an Average Sauna

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-24 23:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16185512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: “I’m going to sleep with you,” Sherlock declared.John paused. “OK.”Sherlock blinked. “Really?”





	The Internal Temperature of an Average Sauna

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ensorcel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel/gifts).



> ~ h a p p y b i r t h d a y ~
> 
> You wrote a fic for my birthday, so I naturally have to fulfill my end of the deal. Take this impromptu one-day one-take oneshot. Enjoy!

On Thursday evening, John opened the door to a flat that was approximately the internal temperature of an average sauna.

Immediately, he shut the door, turned around, and leaned the back of his head against the wood (which was alarmingly _hot)._

In a matter of seconds, the escaped heat was engulfed and extinguished by the chilly autumn air in the hall. In these seconds, John stared up at the light on the ceiling of the hall and tried to think of a viable reason as to why his flat would be approximately the internal temperature of the inside of a sauna.

He opened the door again, quickly stepped inside, and closed it, trapping himself into this absurd heat prison.

“Sherlock?” John took off his shoes, hung up his coat, wandered into the kitchen. “Sherlock!”

“Oh, hello, John,” said Sherlock, standing in the middle of the kitchen. There were five bunsen burners on the dinner table, all turned on. The oven door was open. The screen that usually read the time read _500°F._ All four burners were steadily alight. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Silently, John walked over to the oven and very firmly shut it. He punched the _Oven off_ button with more force than what was required. He turned off the burners one by one in sharp, snappy movements. He turned to Sherlock.

He said, “What the hell are you doing?”

Sherlock, who had been watching all this quietly for the past moments, said, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” John said, “do you have a good reason for why our flat is approximately the internal temperature of an average sauna?”

Sherlock snorted. “Ridiculous. The internal temperature of a—”

“Ah—” John held up a hand. “I don’t care. Do you have a good reason for why our gas bill is going to be a bloody fucking nightmare?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“Oh.” John raised an eyebrow. “You do?”

“I do.”

“Well, go on, then.”

Sherlock raised his chin. “It’s cold.”

John waited.

“It’s cold,” John repeated, after Sherlock decided not to elaborate.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, “it’s cold. And the heater is broken.”

“Wonder how that happened,” John said.

Sherlock pointedly did not respond.

John walked over to the dinner table and began switching off the bunsen burners one by one.

Sherlock started to say something; John turned his head and gave him a look that made him fall silent. It was a hefty task, and an impressive one to say the least. John was careful not to abuse his power—whether it was in fear of overuse leading to diminishing of effectiveness or simply to spare Sherlock’s pride (although John was sure Sherlock had much of that to spare), he wasn’t sure.

“You are going to put on a sweater,” John said softly. “And then you are going to put on a coat. And then you will not touch the oven, the stove, or the bunsen burners for the rest of this month.”

“But it’s the third of October!”

John levelled Sherlock with another steady look. “Surprising that you actually know the date. And, yes, that is in fact the point.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “This is wholly unfair.”

John hummed. “Actually, it isn’t, because I’m going to be the one who inevitably has to explain to Mrs. Hudson the gas and heating bills.”

“But I’m _cold,”_ Sherlock said.

John resisted the urge to groan. “Despite certain mentality aspects, you’re not a toddler anymore. Get a jacket.”

“I don’t have a jacket.”

“Goddamnit, Sherlock—your _coat.”_

“It’s at the dry cleaner. Remember?”

“I remember,” John said. Unfortunately, he did. “So then just suck it up. This heat’ll linger for a good few hours at least.”

“And after that?”

“I’m sure you’ll get used to it.” John absentmindedly patted Sherlock on the shoulder as he walked past him on his way out the kitchen.

“It’s your fault if I catch a cold,” Sherlock called out as he left.

“I am prepared to take full responsibility,” John muttered under his breath.

-+-+-+-

In the wee hours of Friday morning, John was awoken by a faint creaking from his door.

He squinted his eyes open. A tall, dark silhouette cast a shadow in the doorway.

He sighed. “What do you want?”

No response. John briefly looked up to the ceiling in a gesture of despair. He rolled over, pushed himself up with a hand, reached blindly for the lamp.

Light flooded the darkness. Sherlock took a step into the room, illuminated. He was wrapped entirely in his duvet and looked like a very tall, very posh inchworm. He somehow managed to retain his dignified look while doing so.

Sherlock looked at John. John looked back.

“It’s cold,” Sherlock said.

“Is it now,” John said with infinite weariness.

Pause.

“It’s _very_ cold,” Sherlock said.

“Mhm.” John rested his hands underneath his chin and looked up at Sherlock from the bed. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Candles,” Sherlock immediately said. “I could arrange a dozen candles on the mattress around me.”

John watched Sherlock for a moment and wondered how he had managed to survive thirty-something years without blowing himself up, losing body parts, or getting himself killed in some way or another.

“No,” John said, resoundingly.

Sherlock tightened his lips and clutched the edge of the blanket closer to his chest.

“It seems we are at an impasse,” he said.

John hummed, impassively. “That’s too bad.”

Pause.

Sherlock took another step towards John. John raised an eyebrow.

“It’s cold,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, _really.”_

“And the heating is broken.”

“You think?”

Sherlock gave John an irritated look. “And you refuse to allow me to carry out the most reasonable procedures of warming up.”

“You mean, I refuse to let you burn down the flat?”

The irritated look turned into a glare. “If you continue to be this obtuse, there is only one solution left.”

“Really? And what’s that?”

For a moment, Sherlock seemed to hesitate. Then, his face was set with a stubborn determination.

He shuffled over until he was right at the foot of John’s bed.

“I’m going to sleep with you,” he declared, and then fixed John with a look of petulant mirth.

John paused. “OK.”

Sherlock blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah, sure.” Face passive, John pulled back his duvet and patted the mattress to his left. “Body heat.” He shrugged. “It’s free.”

For the slightest fraction of a second, something mildly resembling panic flashed across Sherlock’s face. Then it was gone, replaced with only a lingering defiance in the stiffness of the jaw and the way he carried himself as he slowly lay himself down on John’s bed, unwrapping the blanket from around him.

Sherlock seemed to tense, and then shiver, and then sigh as the cold air was expelled by the bodies and the blankets.

John waited a moment, and then reached out an arm to flick off the light, plunging them into an inky-blue darkness. Then, instead of retracting his arm, he drew it around Sherlock’s torso.

Sherlock immediately turned to what felt like stone. John rolled his eyes, even though Sherlock couldn’t see.

“I don’t bite.” He tugged him closer, gently enough to be subtly prompting.

“I know that,” Sherlock murmured. He ducked his head so that he was leaning his forehead against the neckline of John’s shirt. John felt something tumble inside his chest and reminded himself to breathe.

“You better not talk in your sleep,” John said.

“I don’t,” Sherlock said, “you do.”

“What? How do you—nevermind.” John was much too tired to debate over privacy and boundaries for the umpteenth time.

They dipped into silence for a moment.

John said, “I hope you don’t snore.”

“Honestly, John,” Sherlock said.

John opened his mouth, fully prepared to debate over Sherlock’s ridiculously-vague answers to questions that were really not answers at all, realized he was more willing to debate over something as petty as that than basic human/flatmate boundaries, and then decided not to bother with any of it at all.

Gradually, they became accustomed to each other’s presence. Their breathes synced, chests rising and falling in tandem, push and pull.

John rested his chin on the top of Sherlock’s head. His hair smelled suspiciously like smoke.

“Did you set something on fire again?” John said into Sherlock’s curls.

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded vaguely like an excuse and buried his face into John’s shirt.

John sighed and closed his eyes. He didn’t realize he was smiling.

-+-+-+-

On Friday morning, John woke up to a mouthful of curls, a tangle of spindly arms and legs and vaguely too many elbows to be possible, and what felt like a 1200-watt space heater pressed against him with all the strength of a limpet. The space surrounding him was roughly the same internal temperature as an average sauna.

Groggily, he reached up and tried to push the 1200-watt space heater a.k.a. Sherlock away from him. Sherlock made a noise in his throat and clung on tighter.

John raised a hand to rub at his face and found his forehead damp with sweat. He groaned, mumbled, “Why is it so hot?”

Sherlock tilted his face up towards John. “I’d presume the heating’s fixed,” he said. “And if I recall correctly, I had it turned to the highest setting.”

“Goddamnit, Sherlock.” John began pushing at his chest with slightly more force. Sherlock didn’t let go. “Oh, hell, what now?”

Sherlock looked up at John. His eyes were a stark, pale blue, piercing through the foggy light of morning dew, dampened by lace curtains. He didn’t say anything.

John’s hand slowly fell slack until it was, simply, resting on Sherlock’s chest. A pulse pounded through a cotton shirt.

“Sherlock,” John said, meaningfully.

Sherlock ducked his head and pressed his nose into John’s shirt, where a blossom of warmth burst and spread.

John let his hand drop from Sherlock’s chest.

“Oh, alright,” he said.

He threw the blankets off of the two of them and kicked them somewhere to the far corner of the bed. His other arm tightened around Sherlock, pulled him in once more. He rested his head atop Sherlock’s hair.

And he felt Sherlock smile.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Art] Body Heat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16226981) by [ChicxulubZero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChicxulubZero/pseuds/ChicxulubZero)




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